


A precious son, a jealous mother

by hikarinaki



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: CSA, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!!!, F/M, Mother/Son Incest, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Potentially Just a Dream, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27616073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikarinaki/pseuds/hikarinaki
Summary: written for a kinkmeme promptperhaps it is a dream tinged by fearperhaps it is the loving touch he so cravesperhaps it is the freedom she was denied
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Linhardt von Hevring's Mother
Kudos: 7





	A precious son, a jealous mother

**Author's Note:**

> reading between the line's linhardt's mother was obviously possessive, and his dorothea support implied him to have some sort of trauma he runs from. So....

It always started like this. The creaking of Lin’s heavy bedroom door, the thin shaft of light that slices through the darkness; and the pause to see if Linhardt is truly asleep. But no matter what, the next step is always a whispered spell and the sudden binding chill of a silence spell.

And then the door closes and the light disappears; and he hears the clicking of her boots across the tile floor of his room, until the plush carpet muffles the sound.

A weight falls into the edge of his bed and he hears her sigh. Linhardt’s body is already tense before her hands are on him.

Her long fingers flutter over the fabric of his nightshirt idly as she certainly looks him up and down. Evaluating, judging. Her hand then presses down on his chest, fingernails digging into his skin. Linhardt stiffens, letting out a small whimper in their sleep. “Mother...”

The woman’s face does not change as she continues to evaluate her son. She casts another spell, to keep him still should he awaken. Her hand goes to the hem of his shirt and pushes up the fabric to expose his smooth stomach and chest.

Her touch is light at first, so much so that Linhardt can almost ignore it, he can almost just try and let himself fall back asleep. But he can’t, his skin burns from the contact, and a tremor begins deep in his core.

 _Please. Please stop_ Linhardt wants to cry, but his jaw is sealed shut.

Both of her hands on on him, tracing from his chest to his stomach in an almost neurotic, obsessive loop. Like the way she taps her quill pen on the desk when irritated; or how she paces the hallway of her office.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” she mutters. “And yet still, you were to lucky as to be born a man.”

Linhardt had always been told, how much he resembled his mother. His hair, both its colour and consistency. His delicate jaw and his spindly frame were of his father, but everything else was from her; and she makes sure to claim it as such.

Linhardt had always wondered: if he had been born female, would he look like his mother? And perhaps, his mother wonders the opposite. Wonders if she had been born a man; would she have been spared the oppressive fate that had been dealt to her.

And perhaps she is only taking what is rightfully hers.

“How does that feel?” She asks, knowing he can’t answer. It feels like hot irons being dragged across his skin. His parents never offered him so much as a hug or an affection so pat on the head. Nor did he ever witness them kissing or even holding hands. And so now, her touch burns with the embers of that warmth denied.

Finally, there is a stubborn tug at his sleep pants, and he is powerless to resist her stripping him bare. She pulls off his shirt the rest of the way, and exposes his lower half completely. He is already half hard, his length, only barely through the bulk of its pubescent growth, balls freshly dropped. And his mother’s touch has dutifully seen him through this transition.

He is no longer the child he once was, now on the cusp of changing shape into a man. Even so, she pulls him into her lap and cradles him there. Her free hand traces the length of his body again, and Linhardt's head lulls uselessly against her shoulder. But even if he could move, would he fight her?

“You’re not at all like your father, are you?” She asks, Linhardt’s shaft disappearing into the grasp of her hand. Her wide palm encapsulating the length, her fingers curling around as he becomes fully erect from the touch. “You do not recoil from my touch, do you? My son?”

It had only been recently that Linhardt himself had discovered his preferences; for men as well as women. Not yet had he really even considered that someone could like one and not the other. But his father, very clearly; had no interest in his wife.

And from the outset, it would see that the feeling was mutual.

Be here, shrouded in the darkness; in this liminal space where dreams leak into reality; Linhardt’s mother instead grasps this pale reflection of herself; with more vigour and passion than she had ever felt towards any man. This child isn’t a man after all; he is who she should have been born as.

Linhardt’s mouth falls open as he gasps for air. He expects another spell to wash over him, but it doesn’t come. Her grip on him is secure, and he feels himself drifting higher and higher as his desire to leave this assault of sensation fights to separate his consciousness from her touch. But he can’t run away, perhaps he never can.

It always ended like this. His own seed caked on his stomach, his clothes returned to his body. Or perhaps they were never removed, and was indeed all a dream. But the memory remains, and sometimes, he swears, the thin pink lines from where nails scraped his skin. 


End file.
